The Most Wonderful Time
by decadence of decay
Summary: Bob hates Christmas.


Cherry gives you the new Stones album for Christmas; you give her nothing.

It's fine, I didn't want anything anyway, she claims, but her friends hear all about what a piece of shit you are (she's right), and maybe by New Year's you'll pull your head out of your ass and buy her a rhinestone necklace like Randy gave Marcia (unlikely), so a stalemate of unspoken tension it is until Valentine's Day when you may or may not make up to her— _if_ you survive the holidays (unlikelier).

Christmas. Same old, same old, year in and year out. A _Good Housekeeping_ holiday special about the one time of year your mother strives to maintain the illusion of function instead of merely pretending it'll be there when she wakes up from her three hour snooze.

Oh, and Merry fucking Christmas, Mom—Dad's got a mistress. Spends his nights putting in overtime at the office (so he tells her), but like Cherry says, everything is fine. Fine indeed. So your sister looks like a goddamn a mannequin drowning in taffeta, and the reason housewives require lobotomies has strolled in on yet another unannounced cleaning binge. Just your average family with 2.5 kids, a white picket fence, and a golden retriever.

Any ordinary day in your house.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd knock," you say, shielding your eyes from the light she so rudely flicked on. "Remind me again why we have a maid if you must sterilize everything after she's done?"

"Robert, dear, I'd very much appreciate it if you'd run a comb through your hair before your grandmother arrives. It's been so long since you've seen her." (Not long enough.) Humming an off-key riff of "Deck the Halls," she meticulously dusts around the whiskey adorning the nightstand and turns to you, vacant expression hollowing. "Could you do that for me? She'll be here soon."

Staring at her trembling hands, you drag the comb off the dresser and almost drop it. "Uh huh," you mumble, gripping the flimsy thing until its teeth bite skin, "and I'd very, _very_ much appreciate it if you'd let me stay in my room for the rest of the damn night."

"Pardon?" She leans in, strains to hear. "You want to …?"

"After I say hi to everyone, I want to spend the rest of this godforsaken holiday in my room," you request in the cheeriest tone, grinning ear to ear. "Could I please, Mother? I mean, of course, if I'm not asking too much."

Tick. _Tock._

Tick. _Tock._

The grandfather clock down the hall batters the silence while she hangs her head and studies carpeting for an answer.

"You can tell me if I am, Mother." Places. She's June Cleaver and you're Beaver. "I'll understand and be a good boy, I promise."

She lifts her head, shoulders rise and fall. "If your father agrees, you may stay through dinner and dismiss yourself."

Tick. _Tock._

He will.

Tick. _Tock._

The comb is a brick—

Tick. _Tock._

—slips through your fingers—

Tick. _Tock._

—and pelts her across the cheek.

"You were supposed to say no."

Tick. _Tock._

Snatch the bottle while she rubs the sting out of the blow.

Tick. _Tock_.

"Robert … Baby … "

Tick. _Tock_.

Unscrew the cap.

Tick. _Tock._

Familiar glass against your lips.

Tick. _Tock.  
_  
"Care to stop me?"

Tick. _Tock._

"Sixteen." Pause. "That's how old I am."

"I know, I gave birth to you," a voice replies, mind somewhere else.

Tick. _Tock_.

"You know what Randy's parents would say to him?" Grimace. Astringent fluid sloshes with saliva, burns the esophagus. "Boy, I'd hate to be him right about now, but I'm a lucky, lucky boy with a mother like you."

"Only a little bit, honey, not too much," the maternal caricature advises. "Surely your grandmother'll have a coronary if she sees you intoxicated."

"At least someone will give a shit."

She squints. "Hold still, there's something on your chin."

Catch a glossy glint in her eye. A tear maybe. A speck of dust. Probably just a speck of dust, and don't squirm away when she licks her thumb to groom you like you're three-years-old again. Savor it, _savor it,_ because it's the most affection she'll give you all year.

"Mom?" your vocal chords choke around the word.

"Hold still." Damp skin brushes against yours, wicking whatever it was away, and you do hold still. "There. Now pick up the comb, dear." She strokes your hair once before turning her back to you. "Like I said, your grandmother'll be here shortly."

Tick. _Tock_.

Nod as she trots away.

Tick. _Tock._

Knuckles white, fingers numb, cling to the whiskey.

Tick. _Tock_.

Eyes wet. No. No, no, no, no, you aren't crying.

Tick. _Tock._

Breath hitches.

Sob.

Another swallow.

Daydream of Christmas at Randy's.


End file.
